The grasses are light brown

and ocean comes in

long shimmering lines
under the fleet from last night
which dozes now in the early morning

Here and there horses graze

On somebody's acreage

Strangely, it was not my desire

that bade me speak in church to be released

but memory of the way it used to be in
careless and exotic play

when characters were promises

then recognitions. The world of transformation
is real and not real but trusting.

Enough of the lessons? I mean

didactic phrases to take you in and out of
love's mysterious bonds?

Well I myself am not myself

and which power of survival I speak

for is not made of houses.

It is inner luxury, of golden figures

that breathe like mountains do
and whose skin is made dusky by stars.

O fresh day in February

Come along
with me under pine whose new cones
make flowers. In a mellow mood
let's take anything
and you're better
in the peaceful flowing
in the bech
in the bird who flys up
out of coyote bush,
bob cat who crosses the road.

For who could think I could see

the grace of other souls born, and reborn
before in crab shells
snail shells, the head of a grebe
molesin, new onions up. Drawn by
your clever sleigh of tortoise
I listen for the melody
to sing along.